Amaranth
by Dathomir
Summary: The Potters have settled into their comfortable lives 10 years after DH. That changes when they find an ancient book, written by Ignotus Peverell himself. A friend is murdered, another is kidnapped, and enchantment arises that could topple their world. R
1. Rebirth

Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Amaranth. I entreat you to read it and review it. Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. It has taken me five chapters to find the plot I was looking for, and I'm not giving up now! Enjoy! --Dathomir

"_An escar dewetha an a vyn na bós dystrewys yú mernans._"

Amaranth

By M.M. Bratrud, aka Dathomir

The bench in Rowantwaithe's garden was ancient. Whatever finish it might have had was eroded by decades upon decades of tempestuous coastal weather. The iron structure had rusted to a deep, dark red, and the ivy that strangled the crooked red brick wall behind it was slowly conquering the bench as well. During the frantic spring growth, it sometimes appeared that the bench was part of the ivy; a minor wrinkle in its leafy fabric.

The walled garden around the bench was haphazard, but still beautiful in its own way. Roses and poppies knitted their way around the perimeter, with various other flowering plants abounding in the interior. Several fruit trees stood against the east side of the garden, old and drooping. Ferns had taken hold under them. In the southwest corner, there was a Pendant Amaranth (_Amaranthus Caudatus)_, luscious and tall. In summer, the Amaranth was awash with its deep-red, complicated blossoms.

The house attached to this garden was also old, small, and slightly haphazard. Like the wall of the garden, it was red brick, with tidy white window frames. It had two stories and an attic, but it was low and wide, and as it rested in a depression it seemed to be part of the ground; an impression heightened by the swaths of ivy that covered it.

The house was old. Very old. No one knew exactly how old, but to the people who lived in the house, it seemed to be ageless. An indelible part of the landscape that had been there since time immemorial, and would still be there with the sounding of the last trumpet. The house itself was rather unassuming; nothing really set it apart from other dwellings except for a small plaque of sandstone that read "Rowantwaithe House," and above it a curious triangular symbol, also of sandstone. The triangle followed the natural slope of the roof above the door, and inside it was a line, running from the topmost point of the triangle to the bottom, with a circle around it in the middle. Few who saw it marveled at it, and fewer still of those knew what it signified: the Hallows Quest. For Rowantwaithe was old enough to recall the days in which the Quests were not harmless, hapless diversions, but life-journeys, often with real reward at the end.

There were a few trees around Rowantwaithe, but it was largely bare. It was set fifty yards from the Rame Head Cliff, on a small headland, with sweeping views of the vast Atlantic from practically every window. When the wind blew, the children were not allowed to play outside, and sometimes when it stormed the house would creak ominously.

The residents of Rowantwaithe were far from normal, befitting their eclectic dwelling in the maw of the elements. The Potters were, in fact, as far from normal as was humanly possible.

However, the Potters had managed to find, of all the homes in Britain, perhaps the only one that really equaled them in absence from normality. Every so often one of the children would come screaming that a new room had been discovered; for it was that kind of house. And that was not the extent of it. In the garden, somewhere amid the devolving bench and the resplendent ivy and the roses and peonies and the great Amaranth, was a secret. A secret men had been seeking for millennia.

In fact, Rowantwaithe House was not just tied to the famous Hallows Quest, but to the even more renowned _Whylas dyworth Hanaf Sans_—the Quest for the Holy Grail.


	2. Discovery

Amaranth

Amaranth

By M. M. Bratrud, aka Dathomir

A short background—including an excerpt from Reedy Southey's "Tinsworth & the History of Wizarding in Cornwall," (Obscurus, 1909,) an excerpt from Theodore Windermere's "Potter: the Great Man after Hogwarts" (Chiaroscuro & Belle, 2015), and an excerpt from Bathilda Bagshot's "A History of Magic," (Afelethon, 1953.)

"Tinsworth has always been the mascot of the peculiar Wizarding traditions that have arisen in the West of England. Like Wales and Scotland, Cornwall's unique magic arose from its Celtic heritage. Unlike the more restrained Anglo-Saxon-Roman magic that has taken over in the east of England--and indeed in the worldwide magical establishment, Cornish magic has long been more virile, erratic, and unpredictable. Eastern magic has seen its heyday with wizards like Nicholas Flamel, Gellert Grindelwald, Lord Voldemort, Albus Dumbledore, Rowena Ravenclaw, Salazar Slytherin, Helga Hufflepuff, and most of all Godric Gryffindor. These great spell casters pushed the boundaries of magic, and further tightened the stranglehold of Eastern Magic on the magical establishment.

"There were some, however, who were not so keen on Roman-Anglo-Saxon magic. Some of them advocated Oriental and Native-American magic, but most were of Celtic Heritage. Celtic Magic is arguably the farthest-removed from Anglo-Saxon, and thus the brand that wizards disenfranchised with Anglo-Saxon Magic turned to most.

"The Cornish variety of Magic is by its very nature very informal; its original magicians passed it down through the years in the Father-Son and Mother-Daughter lines. Due to various factors, mostly the end of some of the various Pure-Blood lines, it was almost extinct at the beginning of the nineteenth century; only a few Wizarding families carried it on in Tinsworth, Ottery St. Catchpole, and to a limited extent in Godric's Hollow, ironically famed birthplace of Anglo-Saxon Magic's greatest wizard: Godric Gryffindor. These three villages make up most of the Wizarding population in Southwest England—including Cornwall—and they are, aside from Diagon Alley, Upper Flagley in Yorkshire, and of course Hogsmeade in the Scottish Hebrides, the greatest Wizarding towns. However, one wizard—the son of a Clapham shoemaker, no less—was instrumental in preventing the utter extinction of Cornish magic: John Mark Trewissick. After graduating from Hogwarts-where he was known as a diligent student, despite—or perhaps because of—his Muggle heritage, Trewissick returned to the homestead of his grandfather, outside of Tinsworth in Cornwall. As you may surmise by his name—as the old saying goes, "_By Tre, Pol, or Pen, ye shall know most Cornishmen,__1__" _John Mark was only a first generation Londoner, his father having moved there in 1833—two years before John Mark was born--to be nearer to his wife's parents. Upon arriving in Tinsworth, John Mark began the process of refurbishing the house of his grandfather, Rowantwaithe. He worked alone; too poor to afford Muggle contractors, and thus this process took several years. During this time, Trewissick found that his heritage was not as all-muggle as he thought. His grandfather, Samuel Trewissick, had indeed been a wizard. Trewissick had found, in the attic of Rowantwaithe, a decrepit writing desk which contained several letters from, among others, Hector Dagworth-Granger the famous Potioneer, and Massimo Petrocchi, the talented Italian wizard.

"This was not the last surprise that John Mark Trewissick found in Rowantwaithe. He found a family tree of the Trewissick family, stretching back almost five hundred years, and found that it was one of the so-called "Fringe" families: not pure-blood, but not Muggles. Some of the less militant pure-blood families had married of younger daughters and sons into the Trewissick family, with the result that the family produced at least one wizard most generations—the only notable exception being John Mark's father's. He also found that he was directly related to, among other pure-blood families, the Prewitts, the Weasleys, the Selwyns, the McKinnons, and the now extinct-in-the-male-line Peverells.

"There were other important Wizarding artifacts, and John Mark learned that his grandfather had been a member of the Wizengamot and also of the International Confederation of Wizards. Most importantly, however, was a bookcase full of what are still thought to be the only original copy of the thirty-volume, "Encyclopaedia of Cornishe Magicks" by another of John Mark's ancestors, Ignotus Peverell, written by hand in Cornish. This was a treasure indeed. If John Mark had left his grandfather's house to quietly rot as it had been doing, this priceless manuscript would have been lost forever.

"Ignotus Peverell is a legend. Literally, as he was the youngest brother (after Antioch and Cadmus Peverell) in The Tale of the Three Brothers from 'The Tales of Beedle the Bard.' Next to Merlin and the Grail Quest, the Hallows Quest is another example of the more arcane, eldritch nature of Cornish magic. As most people—even Muggles—know, King Arthur was born at Tintagel Castle in Cornwall, and one of his Knights of the Round Table was King Mark of Cornwall. What all Muggles and most Wizards _didn't_ know was that King Mark was a Peverell, indeed he was the founder of that line."

"John Mark Trewissick was fluent in Cornish—it was still offered in the Cornish-expatriate cottage school that he attended in London before receiving his letter and being decanted off to Hogwarts. He knew immediately the value of what he had discovered. He took it to the father of one of his school friends, Bilius Weasley Sr. Bilius Sr., unlike his famously dotty son, was a heavyweight in the Magical Lore Community, and especially in the fledgling Cornish magic movement, as there had been something of a resurgence at this point. He also saw the value of what Trewissick had found, and he offered Trewissick a job in his Ministry Department, the now-defunct Department of Wizarding History and Relics. Over the next few years, John Mark and Bilius Weasley translated Ignotus Peverell's tome into English, and it was published by an enterprising Upper Flagley bookseller. The book was a resounding flop—it would have been, anyway, except that no one really noticed it. Out of an estimated five hundred copies in its publishing run, fifty or sixty survive today, and it is a highly sought collectible. However, with the continued resurgence of Cornish magic, several new translations and many different editions surfaced.

"What prevented the snowballing of the so-called "Cornish Movement" there and then was the untimely disappearance of Bilius Weasley. He was, apparently, a very particular and not overly familial man. Accounts conflict, but his son Bilius Jr. maintained that his father came down to breakfast one morning, peeked into one of the dishes on the sideboard, and ran out of the house screaming, "Eggs! Eggs! all eggs!" never to return to the bosom of his family. This unfortunate turn of events was apparently by way of being quite a favor to the bosom of his family.

"John Mark Trewissick, who by this time had been very vocal in support of the 'movement,' was crushed. Bilius Weasley's Department was dissolved and assimilated into another department, and John Mark lost his job. However, he obtained a job as the Tinsworth Correspondent for the _Daily Prophet_. He wooed and married Eliza Prewitt, daughter of Lemuel Prewitt, a descendent of Ignotus Peverell himself, and they lived in Rowantwaithe House. They had one daughter, Alice, who married Fitzwilliam Potter.

-_Adapted from Reedy Southey's acclaimed "Tinsworth and the History of Wizarding in Cornwall." In the rest of this thousand-page-plus book, Southey relates more of the West English and Cornish magical traditions, concentrating on perhaps the only Cornish-school wizard ever to achieve worldwide prominence: Merlin. The book presents a strong argument for further study and use of Cornish Magic. It is available from any Wizarding Library worth patronizing. Some minor changes have been made, and this author humbly begs Mr. Southey's forgiveness._

"Harry Potter grew increasingly tired of his London apartment, and indeed of London itself. He and Ginny and their young children began to scout for a new house. Ginny was now determined to live in the country. The city, she said, was not a healthy environment to raise their children. They concentrated on the West Country, but there their agreement ended. Ginny wanted to be near her parents in Ottery St. Catchpole, while Harry wanted to live in the town of his ancestors, Godric's Hollow. Tensions mounted. However, Bill Weasley and his wife Fleur, who lived in the southwest corner of the so-called "Magical Triangle:" Godric's Hollow in North Devon, Ottery St. Catchpole in Southeast Devon, and Tinsworth on the southern Cornish coast, intervened. They knew of a house for sale outside of Tinsworth and they convinced the Potters to take a look at it. It was called Rowantwaithe. The Potters fell in love with it immediately and bought it. As most of their living friends and relatives lived close in one or the other of the "Magical Triangle" towns, it was convenient. The house was full of mysteries, including the fact that it had formerly belonged to a John Mark Trewissick, one of the leading voices behind one of the early 'Cornish movements.'"

_-From Theodore Windermere's "Potter: The Great Man after Hogwarts." _

"Upon the signature of the International Statute of Secrecy in 1689, wizards went into hiding for good. It was natural, perhaps, that they formed their own small communities within a community. Many small villages and hamlets attracted several magical families, who banded together for mutual support and protection. The villages of Tinsworth in Cornwall, Upper Flagley in Yorkshire, and Ottery St. Catchpole on the South Coast of England were notable homes to knots of Wizarding families who lived alongside tolerant and sometimes Confunded Muggles. Most celebrated of these half-magical dwelling places is, perhaps, Godric's Hollow, the West Country village where the great wizard Godric Gryffindor was born, and where Bowman Wright, Wizarding Smith, forged the first Golden Snitch. The graveyard is full of names of ancient magical families, and this accounts, no doubt, for the stories of haunting that have dogged the little church beside it for many centuries."

_-From Bathilda Bagshot's "A History of Magic," as quoted in the seventh volume of Rowling's definitive biography of Harry Potter's early years, "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows."_

Chapter 2 -- Discovery

The fire, roaring an hour or two ago, had been reduced to a flickering mass of coals. This had drawn the tale's listeners closer to the hearth, most of them sitting or kneeling on the hearth rug. They were spellbound by the tale old Xeno Lovegood was weaving. He was older now, and grayer than he had been that fateful year, but still in his eyes shone an almost manic life force, and it captivated all who met him. Tonight, he was telling the story of the Deathly Hallows, drawing it out and dramatizing it as much as possible; holding his young audience spellbound.

Harry Potter was leaning against Rowantwaithe's living room wall holding a mug of tea to ward away the vague chill descending on the house, the firelight dancing off the round glasses he wore, even thicker now than they had been. He smiled and laugh lines in his face creased into greater relief. His children and the children of his friends and relatives were all arrayed before him wide-eyed at Xeno Lovegood's impassioned storytelling. Some of them were not so young, but they were as captivated as the rest, watching the firelight throwing Xeno's unique features into alternate shadow and blazing light as he contorted them into expression after expression. A voice registered on Harry's ears from behind him in the kitchen, and he came out of his reverie to see Ginny coming up beside him with a tray of Molly Weasley's treacle tart. She stopped, watching Xeno's story, and rested her head on Harry's shoulder. Harry's arm came up almost of its own accord and stroked her beautiful hair, its vivid red hue gilt with gold by the fire. The snow pounded outside the windows, and Harry could hear the ravenous wind howling, trying to penetrate the alien warmth of the house. Harry was suddenly glad that the Lovegoods and the Weasleys didn't have to leave in this weather.

Rowantwaithe wasn't big; in fact from the outside it looked almost minuscule, but inside it was large and rambling, and although it was only one story, an attic, and a cellar, it seemed far more convoluted than the Burrow. Harry had never got around to counting the number of bedrooms in the house, but he had a feeling that it would be no easy task. In any case, the house had swallowed up effortlessly any number of guests. Whenever they seemed to be in need of space, someone would come running with tidings of a newly-discovered bedroom off the Smallest Sitting Room. Unnerving at first, Harry had learned to take these sudden discoveries in stride, and the children loved them.

Xeno was wrapping up his story. The children drew even closer. Finally, it was over and Ginny swooped down on them, bundling them off to bed. Harry sat down in his favorite chair, opposite Xeno's rocker. Ron, Hermione, and Luna joined him. They sat in silence for a while, sipping their tea and staring into the depths of the dying fire. Hermione, now an employee at the new Department of Magical History and Relics, cleared her throat. The others looked at her.

"I've found something. Just a second, I'll get it."

She walked out. When she returned she was carrying a huge, frayed, ancient book, with a lambskin cover that had long since faded to a dry buttery color of tan. Ron stood up immediately and helped her set it on the table. Harry, Xeno, and Ginny, who by this time had put the children to bed, also got up and crowded around the table.

"This is Harry's. I found it while I was cleaning your attic last week with Ginny. It's terribly old and written in Cornish. Thankfully, we had a bit of a crash course in it when I was hired by the Ministry, and I can make some of it out.

"Blimey, Hermione, I didn't even know there was a Cornish language."

"Well, passing over Ron's ignorance—"

"Darling, you know my ignorance doesn't like being passed over. It hurts it's feelings."

Harry chuckled.

Hermione smiled in spite of herself. "As I was saying, according to the cover, this is 'The Encyclopedia of Cornish Magic' by someone we all should remember, Ignotus Peverell."

Harry looked up. "Ignotus Peverell? But he's my ancestor, he's the third brother in the Hallows Quest."

"Yes, I know. That's why it's important."

"Important to what, Hermione? We're not on a horcrux hunt anymore," said Ron, looking rather tired. She pursed her lips.

"But Hermione," said Harry, trying to break the barbed silence, "Ignotus Peverell wasn't Cornish. And how did he fit all of Cornish Magic into one book, big as it is." Harry looked at the book, which was enormous. "From what I've heard, Cornish Magic is at least as extensive as the Roman brand."

Hermione grinned at him. "Cornwall in Ignotus Peverell's time was larger than Cornwall today. Back then, it basically covered the whole West Country, including Godric's Hollow. Anyway, there are twenty-nine more volumes upstairs, and this one is about the smallest."

Ron whistled.

"Well, if your Cornish isn't that good, how are we going to read it?"

"I talked to Michael Corner at the Ministry, and he says that it was published in English more than a hundred years ago. He's trying to find a copy for us."

"If it's already been published, we're not the first people who found it, are we?"

"No, actually not. It was someone who owned this house in the nineteenth century—I think his name was John Trewissick or something like that. But no one's apparently touched it in a century. The dust was about a foot thick."  
"So that's why you've been sneezing," Ron said, chuckling.

"Daddy, don't you know Cornish?" Luna said, to Xeno. Up till this point, she had been quiet.

"I used to, my dear, I used to. The authoritative period biography of Rowena Ravenclaw was written in Cornish. Sadly, that was forty years ago and my eyesight isn't as good as it once was. I'm afraid we'll have to wait for the translation."

Hermione opened the book at random and studied it, her nose so close to the page that it was getting dusty.

"Hmmm…._Dynergh_….I _think_ that means 'Welcome.' Maybe 'welcomed.'"

"It's late," said Harry, looking at the watch that once belonged to Gideon Prewitt, "we better turn in."

Ginny looked askance at the book. "We better move the book. Some of us have to eat on that table, you know."

Ron and Hermione picked the book off the table, while Ginny looked scandalized at the dust it had left. Suddenly, Ron's end dropped back onto the table. "Ow! He exclaimed, looking at a small cut on his hand.

Hermione sealed the cut with an exasperated flick of her wand. "Ron, what could possibly have cut you? It's a book for heaven sakes!"

Hermione picked the book up by its end and shook. From the cavity between the spine and the pages fell something small, flat, and gold. Hermione held it up to the light and examined it. It was an ornate, rounded medallion, made of gold, and decorated with engravings of a flower that seemed strangely familiar to Harry, who was now looking over Hermione's shoulder, but he could not place it. There were words, intricately carved into the gold. They too were in Cornish.

"Let's see…" Hermione said, attempting to translate, "I can see 'King Mark of Cornwall'—he was one of King Arthur's knights, and 'Tintagel Castle.' Oh, here's 'treasure' and 'cup.' Hmmm, I can't think of this phrase. I think its Greek! There's '_Agios Pneumata'_ and '_Theos.' _ No idea what that is—I never took Greek. Oh, I know that one. '_Christos' _means 'Christ.' Okay, it's getting clearer. Let's see if I can…well, here goes. "Something, something, King Mark of Cornwall, of Tintagel Castle, something, Agios Pneumata and Theos, something else, the treasure; the Cup of Christ."

"I don't believe it." She said, "It's talking about the Holy Grail."

1This is a real Cornish saying.


	3. Shock

Amaranth

Amaranth

By M. M. Bratrud, aka Dathomir

Chapter 3 – Shock

"But….the Holy Grail doesn't exist. Does it?" Ron's voice was hesitant. Hermione shook her head. "Probably not. It's a myth. No one actually believes in it anymore. Although," she said, getting that faraway look in her eye that was peculiar to her, "all myths have a basis in fact."

"Well, yeah, but come on…I mean, the _Holy Grail?_ No way." said Ron.

"You know?" Hermione said, looking at Ron half-teasingly, "I'll bet I have a book on the subject."

Ron groaned.

"You can't be serious Hermione. It's nearly midnight already."

Everyone was looking rather haggard. Even Luna, normally unchanging, was slightly more pop-eyed than usual. Harry stood up. "Yeah, I think it's time for bed."

Hermione looked reluctant, but she acquiesced. "Alright, but don't think you're getting out of it, Ronald. Tomorrow we'll all be fresh and we can have a look in the attic. Oh, but I suppose you have to tend the shop. It'll have to wait.

Ron and Harry helped old Xeno out of his chair while Ginny and Hermione moved the book to the mantelpiece above the fire, which was now almost dead. Luna rushed off to the kitchen to prepare hot water bottles. Lovely as it was, the central heating at Rowantwaithe left much to be desired. Suddenly, Hermione gave a loud yell. "I'VE GOT IT!"

Ron swore and almost dropped Xeno Lovegood. Xeno himself, who had been enjoying a nap, opened one eye peevishly and then closed it again, muttering. Harry and Ginny caught each other's eye and smiled.

Everyone looked at Hermione. Ron spoke sarcastically; "What is it this time? Oh, I know!" He snapped his fingers as if in comprehension, "it's not the Grail after all; it's the Tower of Babel. Or maybe scrolls from the library of Alexandria!" He beamed in ecstasy and mimed peering at a scroll and wiped an imaginary tear of joy away.

Hermione was unmoved. She crossed her arms in front of her and raised an eyebrow at Ron's antics. "Are you finished?" Ron, curious in spite of himself, indicated that he was. "I know what this is." She held up the small golden medallion. "It's called a _questicon._ It's kind of a guide for people on a quest; a clue. In this case, the Grail quest. You remember old Xeno telling us about the Hallows quest?" she nodded her head toward the old man, who had dozed off again. By this time Luna had returned and looked despairingly at Hermione, who was on one of her verbal crusades again. "Well, the Grail quest was similar. The seekers stuck together, formed societies. I guess they thought there was safety in numbers. A questicon was hidden with a strong magical pulse put on it. A new recruit to the Quest would have to go around the countryside, finding the questicons and following them to the next one. Of course, they never learned anything new, as the Questicons were planted by other members of the Quest, but Bagshot speculates that the senior Questors knew more than they told, so there's no way to be sure if this is new information or not."

"Tell me that's not a direct quote from _A History of Magic,"_ Ron said. Hermione didn't know whether to be flattered or annoyed, so she compromised by aiming a playful half-kick at Ron, who didn't dodge fast enough and contorted his face in pretended agony, moaning terribly and rubbing his shin. Hermione continued: "Luckily, I know the spell, so there's an easy way to see if this one was ever used." She pulled out her wand and passed it over the medallion a few times, muttering an incantation under her breath. It didn't sound like Latin to Harry, and her wand movements were somehow not the ones they had learned at Hogwarts; at once shorter and more elegant. A pale golden mist erupted around the plaque, revolving around it and engulfing Hermione's hand. A deep, stentorian voice began faintly, and grew louder in time with Hermione's own incantation. It also was in a foreign language. Even Xeno Lovegood was watching Hermione now, an odd intensity in his watery eyes.

Hermione closed her eyes and lifted her hand, chanting louder and faster. The medallion rose from her hand, floating in the center of the room. Finally, the voice became quieter and the mist receded until it was just a plain gold medallion again. It dropped back into Hermione's hand. An odd smell permeated the room, flowery and playful, but at the same time deeper; ancient and sad. Harry thought he might have smelled it in a garden once, but he couldn't place it. Hermione stood looking wide-eyed at the plaque. Some of the golden mist seemed to hang around her for a moment, vitalizing her appearance. Her eyes were never so chocolaty, her hair never so golden-brown. She was more beautiful than Harry had ever seen her. It awed him.

The golden radiance dissipated and Hermione was Hermione again, perhaps with more of a twinkle in her eye.

"What was that?" Ron asked, bewildered.  
"That." Hermione said, smiling "was Cornish Magic."

"Wow," said Ron, "I've got to learn that."

"So….has the questicon been used before?" Harry asked.

"No, actually." said Hermione, her brow creasing. "That intrigues me. But," she sighed, as if conceding defeat, "I suppose we'll have to wait until I can get it translated to know for sure if it's what I think it is."

Ron looked at her quizzically. "And what do you think it is?"

Hermione smiled. "What else could it be, Ron? The whereabouts of the Grail itself."

The English copy of the enormous book was proving difficult to locate, and after a week or so, life at Rowantwaithe reverted to its normal pace. Michael Corner was still fairly sure that they _could_ find a copy of the book, but he could not give them an estimate as to _when._ The questicon also proved to be somewhat of a disappointment. Hermione had taken it to the Ministry, and Michael Corner took one glance at it and decided it was beyond his Cornish skills. He assured Hermione that no one else would be able to translate it, and so it was decided to wait for the translation of the book and see what it had to say about the Grail Quest. This was probably just as well, in Harry's opinion. He didn't see any reason to invite rumors and gossip by inviting an unknown third party to examine the questicon, even if they could translate it.

So, Harry went back to his writing—each day he spent bent over the parchment, quill in hand. The commissions at _The Quibbler _were coming faster now, and Harry was hard pressed to keep up. Ron was looking after Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, which had expanded under George Weasley's expert care. George himself had been in a nasty accident with an erumpent horn that somebody passed off as one from a Crumple-Horned Snorkack (_Absurditus Luniae,_ documented by L. Scamander) and was confined to the hospital for a month, so the burden of running the bustling business fell squarely on Ron's shoulders, leaving him precious little time to spend with Hermione and the children. Old Mr. and Mrs. Weasley helped, and Bill and Fleur, but the former did not have the knack for business and with Victoire's special needs, Bill and Fleur were hard-pressed to keep up with their own lives.

Victoire was recovering nicely from her surgery, but the doctors said she needed constant monitoring in case the arrhythmia began again. Fleur was thus forced to give up her job at Ollivander's and stay home with her daughter, to care for her and to help her keep up with her Hogwarts studies. This left them to live on Bill's salary at Gringott's, which wasn't as much as it could have been. They had refused all offers of help from anxious friends and family members, financial or otherwise.

Luna was busy as well, taking care of her father as well as running the thriving Quibbler. After the fall of Voldemort, subscribers were wary to return to the Daily Prophet, especially now that it was proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that everything Harry Potter had said was true. It shriveled and finally folded. Luna snapped it up and turned The Quibbler into a daily newspaper. It kept her so busy that she had little time for anything else, including men, although she had had more than her share of offers.

Ginny had her hands full with their children; James, Albus, and little Lily. She endured everything the children could throw at her with her characteristic patience. Mrs. Weasley, seeing the chaos raised by the precocious children shook her head and stated matter-of-factly, "I suppose children from a match like that are bound to be a handful." This, indeed, seemed to be the case. Teddy Lupin helped with the children when he could, but he was studying hard at Hogwarts.

As weeks turned into months, and the weather mellowed slightly as they neared the end of March, Michael Corner's search for the book apparently bore fruit: an old gentleman in Godric's Hollow had been wheeling a stack of books to the rubbish heap on a cart when Michael happened to come across him in the street. They were neighbors, and so he passed the time of day. Michael, more of politeness than anything, asked him what the books were, and why he, the old man, was desirous of being rid of them. "I can't rightly say, Squire," he said in a gravelly voice, with a thick Yorkshire accent that sounded out of place in the genteel atmosphere of Godric's Hollow. "Picked 'em up from old Worley's. He passed on, see, and nobody knew of any kin, so the church held a rummage sale. No one knew what these were, so I got 'em for a song. Thought they might be worth something. Aren't though," he finished morosely. The lines on his face deepened. Can't even understand 'em. Writing's awful flowery, and I never was much for reading anyway. So, I says to meself, there isn't any need to waste shelf space on 'em, so I'll have Art burn them." Michael, by this time having inspected the books, indicated that he could take them. The man, only too eager to be rid of his burden, agreed. Michael found that the books were in terrible condition, so they were taken to the Ministry and Michael set about repairing them. According to Michael, it was going to take a week or so. Harry waited impatiently. Finally, on the morning of the second of April, Michael Corner's head popped up in the fire, just before breakfast. "Got it ready!" He said, not wasting any words on greeting. Ron and Hermione had stayed the night before, as the wind off the sea was bitterly cold; too cold to walk back to their cottage, about a quarter mile away. Harry stopped buttering his toast and smiled.

"Finally. I don't mind telling you I had just about given up."

Michael smiled, the flames dancing around and under his head. "Lost your faith in me that quickly, Potter? It's only been two months. No, I don't blame you. I was at the end of my rope myself. Anyway, I won't be able to come over myself, so I'm owl-posting it."

"How on earth are you going to do that? They must weigh two hundred pounds or more."

"Heavens, Ron, are you a wizard or not? Hover charm, of course. Anyway, Hermione, I'll see you at the office. See you Harry, Ron. My, Ginny those kids aren't letting you rest, are they?" The flames began to engulf his head. Hermione snapped her fingers.

"Wait, Michael. Before I forget, I won't be in till noon tomorrow. Hugo's got a doctor's appointment. I've been trying to get him in for months and I only found out yesterday. Sorry."

"Doesn't matter. Believe me, I know all about socialized medicine," said Michael, smiling. "Things are pretty slow around here. Take care." The flames engulfed him fully, and Michael Corner's head disappeared. Ginny took the sizzling bacon off the stove and they sat down to eat.

The next morning, two things happened. The first occurred as Harry was paying the _Quibbler_ owl for his paper, yawning. Another owl, quite a large one, swooped down, its wings fanning. In its claws was an impossibly huge package. Harry untied the package, and the letter attached to it. He attempted to lift the package and found that it weighed only a fraction of what it should. The owl, an unusually dour specimen, flew away. Harry took the package, the _Quibbler_, and the letter back inside, shivering in the morning chill. Ginny was up by this time, and smiled as he began to open the package. "Finally." In it were thirty old volumes. Harry picked up the first one and began to read. It was complicated; "flowery writing," as the old man had said. It was, however, very readable, and Harry was immediately interested. Reluctantly, he put it down and went to wake the children.

When he had a moment to himself, Harry looked at the letter that had come with the package. It was not addressed; or even sealed. Inside was a single sheet of paper with writing in Michael's hand. It looked rushed, something completely alien to Michael's methodical ways. It had a strange urgency to it, and the stirrings of unease began to grow in Harry's stomach. Written on the sheet were the words, "Look below the locket." The seemingly pointless and random words only increased Harry's anxiety, but he laid the letter aside and went to eat breakfast.

The second thing happened just as the breakfast dishes were cleared off the table. A silver-white shape appeared in the middle of the room. Lily screamed and Ginny rushed to hold her. The shape solidified into a mammal, like a wolf, but with a nobler cast to the eyes and something ferrety about the nose. It was a Patronus. A voice issued from it, stentorian and captivating due to the nature of the spell. Still, Harry could tell that it was the voice of Draco Malfoy, rigidly in control but extremely tense. "Corner's been found dead in his office. Weasleys already alerted. Come at once. No idea who or how."

Sorry for the slight cliff-hanger. Anyway, it might be a while before chapter 4 is up, but rest assured, it will be juicy. I hope you enjoyed chapter 3, anyway. ;)

Alex, thanks for the tremendous help. I made some pretty stupid mistakes. However, some things are unchanged. For example, the story is set _before_ the epilogue of Deathly Hallows, and thus Teddy and Victoire are still at school, while James Potter Jr. is not. I'm not sure what ages Ron and Hermione's kids are, but they are probably just starting at Hogwarts. Also, when Hermione "assumed the faraway look that was peculiar to her" I saw no need to change it, because I actually have seen that used in other books; I could have substituted "unique" for "peculiar" if that clears up the meaning somewhat. Also, "A History of Magic" is a book by Bathilda Bagshot, and a proper noun, so I saw no reason to uncapitalize (not a word) "history." Am I wrong?


	4. Reverberations

Amaranth

By M. M. Bratrud, aka Dathomir

Chapter 4—Reverberations

For a moment, the whole household was in shock. The Patronus, not giving them a second glance, dissolved. The silence didn't last long. "Why would anyone kill Michael?" Ginny asked. Harry looked at her, but he could only shrug helplessly.

"I don't know. But whoever it is needs to be caught. I have to go help Malfoy, love. I'll be back for lunch...I hope." He swooped down and kissed Ginny on the cheek, whispering as he did so. "It'll be all right, Gin. I promise." Ginny nodded and wiped a tear away. Harry sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. He walked to the door and apparated with a crack.

He was too preoccupied to concentrate on his apparition, and he had never really been good at it, so he ended up about three blocks west of the Ministry of Magic. He looked around, a trifle blearily, and cursed under his breath. He decided to walk the rest of the distance. It was about half past eight and the streets of northern London were fairly quiet and uncrowded. Harry headed north at a brisk pace, pondering the events of the morning. He still couldn't figure out _why_ anyone would want to kill Michael. He was the head of a small Ministry department that basically consisted of two cramped offices and a library on Level 4 of the Ministry, much too close to the Pest Advisory Board for comfort.

Harry mulled around in his head any possible motives the killer might have had. Had Michael found something he wasn't supposed to? Had he fallen in with the wrong crowd and balked? Did he find an artifact he wasn't supposed to? These scenarios got more complex and unlikely until Harry was envisioning a strange scene with the ghost of Michael Corner confronting the Minister of Magic about the way the investigation into his death was being handled, pointing out that it was obvious to anyone that it was a heart attack. Something about this seemed so ludicrous to Harry that he cracked a grin, which quickly turned into a scowl as he remembered the whole awful situation. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he bumped right into the telephone box, now long decommissioned, that made up the visitor's entrance to the Ministry of Magic. He opened the door with one hand and rubbed his head with the other, muttering something unprintable.

The bump gave him a headache, which put him in an even fouler mood and he stabbed the buttons on the telephone, 6...2...4...4...2. 'Welcome to the Ministry of Magic, please state your name--"

"Oh, shut up."

"--and your purpose for coming to the Ministry," said the cool female voice.

"Harry Potter, Death of Michael Corner."

The telephone groaned slightly and spat out a purple badge from what would have been the coin-return. It read:

Oh, Shut Up Harry Potter

Death of Michael Corner

Harry shook his head and attached the badge to his overcoat. Suddenly the floor dropped out on him and he was standing next to the security desk, waiting for his stomach to catch up with him. The guard, a large man with a big beard, barely gave him a glance before returning to his newspaper, cigarette migrating around his mouth. "So it's you, is it? Minister says you're to go on down. Fourth Floor, can't miss it," said the guard in thick Cockney, gesturing with his head. "'Ave a nice day." Harry privately thought that was unlikely, but he didn't stay so. He moved past the guard and into the atrium.

The atrium had been extensively redone since the second appearance of Voldemort. The fawning statue of the wizard, witch, and various magical beings had been destroyed by Voldemort, who replaced it with an awful statue of dead muggles intertwined with each other. That certainly didn't last long. As soon as Shacklebolt was installed as Minister, he had it removed and destroyed, and declined to replace it. The whole section had fallen into disrepair. Minister Percy Weasley finally grew sick and tired of it, and had the whole atrium redone in dark wood paneling, in a red finish, with brass trimmings. The fountain was finally replaced with another fountain, this one with no statues in it. There was, however, an interesting spell on the fountain. No one knew exactly how it worked, because it had been a bit of an accident in the beginning, but the fountain seemed to reflect the general mood in the Ministry at that time. Sometimes it was loud and playful like a brook, but some times it was heavy and slow and sad, like a quiet, forlorn backwater. Today was one of those times. It was so depressing that Harry tried to ignore it as he walked past it toward the elevators.

"Level 4" he said, as he stepped into the elevator, a few inter-departmental memos whizzing around his head. The elevator silently complied, and seconds later he stepped out onto the fourth floor. The fourth floor was always rather dirty, mostly because it held the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, but today it looked awful. The corridors, which were extra-wide, were covered in straw and some sort of manure was splattered around liberally, even on the ceiling. Harry could only guess they had been trying to move around some sort on unwilling animal. Although off the top of his head he couldn't think of any that could spray manure like that.

Any thoughts of manure were banished from his head when he saw the Minister of Magic and his entourage, looking very harried, coming down the corridor. The Minister looked up and saw Harry standing next to the elevator. "Ah, Potter. Showed up, have you? About time." He and Harry surveyed each other with dislike, the Minister managing to look down his nose at Harry, even though he was a head shorter. His hair, as always, was plastered to his head in a blond helmet. His hairline, however, had receded somewhat, and the effect was slightly comical. But Draco Malfoy was a capable politician and a good administrator.

"Yes, forgive me. My apparition was off. I had to walk a few blocks."

"Surely you could have apparated again? Ah, I forgot. Your apparition skills are--"

"--quite serviceable, thank you very much. I simply wanted some exercise."

Malfoy's face softened slightly. "Well, you're probably going to need it. It's quite an affair. Here," he said, gesturing ahead of him, "I'll show you."

Harry followed Malfoy down the corridor, trying hard to avoid the manure that covered everything. "Is it always this bad?" Harry asked as they gingerly navigated one of the worst sections, followed by Malfoy's entourage.

"It is since the Pest Advisory Board moved in here. Drove Michael to distraction."

"You don't think...suicide?"

"Well, I haven't ruled it out, but Michael was perfectly happy by all accounts. He was a bachelor, you probably know, but he'd been going steady with a woman for the past few months."

"Who?"

"Hmmm, can't recall. Not a witch, I believe." Malfoy tried hard to keep his voice neutral, but some of the old disdain crept in. Harry sighed. Some things never changed.

"Well...how was he killed?"

"That, Mr. Potter, is the question. We're pretty sure it wasn't...well, the killing curse, but we really have no way of being sure. The doctors tell me he's in perfect health except for the undeniable fact that he's--"

"Dead."

"Exactly."

"Have you told the press?"

"Ah, no actually. I was rather hoping you would...I don't get on with You-Know-Who very well."

"Malfoy--"

"Good, that's settled then. You can use the fire in my office when you have a moment. First I want to show you the crime scene. Ah, here we are."

It was not a long trip from the elevator to Michael's office where the crime had been committed, but the manure on the floor was so bad in some places that it was very slow going. Harry was dragging his feet. He didn't particularly want to see the dead body of one of his friends and his sister-in-law's boss. It had been so long since he had seen a corpse. He would have been quite happy never to see one again. With dismay, he noted that they had arrived.

Malfoy had his hand on the doorknob. He looked at Harry. "Ready, Potter?"

"I suppose..."

Malfoy opened the door.

And for one exhilarating instant, Harry thought Michael was alive.

But alas, it was not to be. Michael sat in his chair, head slumped forward slightly. His eyes were closed, but he did not look dead. His flesh did not look waxy or pale, as would be expected, but maintained the bronzed look that is had when Michael was alive. His face looked calm and peaceful, as if it did not know that he was dead. Michael looked nothing more or less than asleep. Harry could easily see why Malfoy was puzzled about his death.

"What do the doctors say?" Harry said quietly, breaking the silence.

Malfoy visibly pulled himself together, as if out of a reverie. "We're pretty sure it wasn't anything we've ever seen before. The magic—if it was magic—was nothing we've ever come across. Oh, the press will love this."

Harry's brow furrowed. "Well, was it magic for certain? I mean, it seems unlikely that there's all that many ways to kill someone magically. Unless..."

"What?"

"Hmmm?"

"What? Unless what?"

"Oh, well I was just thinking. Before he died, Michael sent me a set of books. The books were about Cornish magic."

"What's that?"

"Magic. From Cornwall."Harry answered, dryly.

"Oh, hilarious, Potter. Well, what of it? Said Malfoy.

"Just hypothesizing...I mean, from what I've seen so far, it's pretty far removed from the magic they taught us at Hogwarts. But what if it was able to accomplish something like this?"

"Okay, okay, let's set that aside for now. When did Michael send you the books? Maybe we can at least figure out when he died. Our best guess is sometime during the night. His coffee was stale."

"But he sent me the books at about eight this morning. At least, that's when they arrived. But how long does it take an owl to get from London to Tinsworth?"

"Hmmm, about two hours, I'd say. So, he was still alive at six in the morning. And then he came to the office...and was killed. That doesn't add up. I don't think anyone could have broken in here without us realizing it. If not at the time, then definitely afterwards. But there's no evidence anything out of the ordinary happened."

"Unless, of course, the perpetrator was using a completely alien type of magic."

"Ah." said Malfoy, his eyebrows rising. "Well, that is a possibility. Did Michael send you a note with the books? Anything to indicate that it was sent in haste, as if he was pursued?"

"Oh, you idiot." Harry breathed.

"What? Me?"

"No, me. I'd forgotten all about it. He did send a note. And it was written in haste. I was puzzling about it, but when your Patronus came I forgot all about it."

"What did it say?"

"That's why it was so strange. All it said was 'Look below locket.'"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, absolutely. In fact," Harry rummaged in his pocket, "here it is." He took a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Malfoy. Malfoy surveyed it briefly.

"That does look hurried. Either he was being pursued in some way or he was just running late. It could be either one."

"You're right. And that leaves us right back where we started."

"Not really. We have a possible method—Cornish magic. No motive, though. Hmm, well, can you tell Lovegood for me? I have to talk to Blythe for a minute, arrange for the body to be taken away."

"Fine."

Malfoy breezed out of Corner's office without a backward glance, and Harry followed him. He took the elevator up to Malfoy's office and took some Floo powder from a tin on the mantle. He threw it into the fire and jumped in, yelling, "Diagon Alley!" as he did so. This time, thankfully, he was able to say the words correctly and soon found himself outside Gringott's. He walked down the thoroughfare until he saw the Daily Prophet building, which he entered. He walked through the crowded main lobby into the offices behind and quietly tapped the door marked "L. Scamander, Editor-In-Chief."

"Come in!" said a high, cheerful voice from within, and Harry entered.

The office was small and neat, with a minuscule round window at the rear that made it pleasant and light. Luna Scamander sat at the desk, reading a draft. She looked over her glasses at Harry and her expression brightened. "Harry! What are you doing here? You haven't been over in ages!" She came around the table and hugged him enthusiastically. Harry couldn't help smiling. Some things, he thought again, never change. Luna was the same as ever. He couldn't even imagine her changing. The brief smile wore off as he remembered why he had come to see Luna in the first place. He sat down in the chair opposite her and poured himself a generous cup of tea from the teapot on the side table next to her desk. This amused Luna. "Why yes, Harry, you may have some tea. Sugar's on your left. Good heavens, you look like you need it." Her smile faltered. "What is it? Is something wrong?" Harry took a gulp of the tea and closed his eyes in ecstasy.

"Oh, I needed that. Well, Luna," he looked at her sadly, "Michael Corner was found dead in his office this morning."

"Oh, how awful! Was it--was it the killing curse?" Luna's eyes looked even larger than usual, but Harry could tell she was listening closely.

"No. In fact, we have no idea what it was. He doesn't even look dead." Harry realized as he said it the absurdity of it all: how could a dead person still look very much alive? Especially hours after the death. As far as he and Malfoy could tell, rigor mortis hadn't even set in. "We don't know who, we don't know how, and we don't know why!" Harry's voice rose unconsciously as he spoke.

"Calm down, Harry. We'll find out." She pressed a button on her desk. "Angelina, Colin, get in here." Within thirty seconds there was another tap on the door. Angelina Johnson and Colin Creevey entered. Harry nodded briefly to them and Luna filled them in. "--And so I need you to get over there right away. Get a statement from Malfoy, from whoever else you can. Maybe the night guard. " Angelina and Colin didn't need to be told twice. They immediately apparated out of the room. Luna took the empty tea cup from Harry's hands and set it down on the table. "Harry, if there's anything to be found, we'll find it. Don't worry. Why don't you go home? We can handle this." And with that, Luna herded him out the door. He slowly walked out of the building and apparated home.


	5. Gone

Amaranth

By M. M. Bratrud, aka Dathomir

Chapter 5—Gone

Harry Potter wove his weary way home. He apparated in fits and starts, because he wasn't concentrating, and the simple journey from Diagon Alley to Tinsworth took him more than an hour. To top things off, it was raining. A heavy spring deluge that Harry would have enjoyed very much except for the things preying on his mind. And the fact that he was out in it, instead of surveying it appreciably from his study, a cup of tea in his hand. When he finally got home, Ginny was almost frantic for lack of news. "What's happened? Have they found out who did it? Have they arrested anyone?" Harry tried to answer her questions, but his mood was so black and in reality he had so few answers that he soon gave up and collapsed into a chair by the fire. Ginny brought him a cup of tea and he ran his fingers through his wet hair. She sat down opposite him.

"This is the first, isn't it?" said Ginny quietly.

"The first what?" Harry replied, his head tilted upward, eyes tiredly surveying the ceiling.

"Murder. The first wizarding murder since Voldemort."

It was a sobering thought. It had been years since Voldemort, and the Wizarding world, at least in Britain, had been almost impossibly peaceful. And now that was changed.

"It is."

"I still can't believe it."

"I know exactly what you mean. One minute, he sends me a package of books, the next he's dead."

"Have they broken the news to Hermione yet? She'll take it hard. He was her boss, after all."

"I don't know. I suppose I better go over and find out. I haven't seen a Weasley all day. Unnatural experience."

"Don't forget, dear, your children are half-Weasley."

"I don't hold it against them."

"Oh, very funny."

"Well," Harry said with a sigh, "I better go over and see Hermione. Anything I should tell them?"

"Well, if you get a chance, I want to know how Hugo's checkup went."

"Right-o. I'll be back within the hour."

Harry sighed again and levered himself out of the chair with great reluctance. He put on his coat again and left the house. With a crack, he apparated. He had done it so often, and the distance was so short, that he managed to do it in one try. He found himself on the threshold of Ron and Hermione's house in the middle of Tinsworth. He knocked at the door.

Quicker than he expected, it opened and Ron poked his head out. He looked panicky and his eye was rapidly turning black. "Oh, Harry, thank God. I thought..."

"Ron, where's Hermione?"

"Well..."

"Where is she??"

"They arrested her."

"Wha--? Arrested? Let me in!"

Ron stood aside, still looking frantic, and Harry stalked into the house. It was a beautiful little house, which Ron and his brother Charlie had built a few years ago. But Harry didn't have the time or inclination to notice it at the moment. He turned quickly to Ron. "Right. What happened?"

"Michael Corner's dead...still can't believe it. And they thought—they thought she—she..." Ron's voice trailed away, and Harry stood there, stunned.

"Hermione? Murdered Michael Corner?! What is wrong with them? She wasn't even there!!"

"I know! But it's like Scrimgeour all over again. What are we going to do?" Ron looked on the verge of tears. Harry hoped the children were sound asleep.

"This is bad, Ron. You're sure it was the Ministry?"

A look of horrified comprehension came into his face. "Blimey. They couldn't have been. I should have realized, I had never seen them before. And the robes, Aurors wouldn't be caught dead in them. Oh, you fool. You should have fought--!"

His voice trailed off in self-disgust. "It's okay, Ron. We'll get them. We'll get her back."

Harry's heart was racing. The day, which began well, had descended into a bad dream, and was now rapidly making the transition to nightmare. Rather incoherently, Harry and Ron bundled the sleepy children into the beaten old Anglia, and, engine wheezing and tires scratching futilely for traction, and began the mile-long climb to Rowantwaithe. It was dark now, and the feeble headlights made strangely illuminated ghosts of the rather tropical foliage peculiar to the south coast. Finally they arrived and with furtive glances about, hurried the children into the warm light of Rowantwaithe. Ginny was predictably frightened and angry, and after hustling the children with little explanation to sleep with their cousins, they had a whispered council of war in the dimly lit dining room.

Ron, they decided, should apparate to the Ministry, make doubly sure that it wasn't an actual arrest, and make them aware of the situation, while Harry and Ginny kept all the children safe. Suddenly, Ginny snapped her fingers. "Oh, hell. Ron, the book, the book. Did they take the book?" Ron's look of tired sadness sharpened into horror.

"Oh, bugger it, they must have. I should have checked—no, it wasn't there." He sank down, in even deeper despair. Harry looked, nonplussed, between the two of them.

"What book? Why?"

"Oh, Harry," said Ginny, "you didn't know. Hermione borrowed the book—the English version—this morning, after you left."

"You mean...they have it?"

Ron nodded mutely.

"Oh, that's all we need." Harry ran his hands through his hair. "Ron, you better leave. The sooner Malfoy knows the better."

"Right." Ron took a handful of green powder from a shelf on the mantelpiece, and threw it into the dying fire. Green flames sprang up and he stepped in, yelling "Ministry!" He disappeared and the unnatural flames died down. Harry took Ginny in a silent, comforting hug. They were still hugging a minute later when Ginny began to cry. Huge, shaking, despairing sobs. Even Harry felt his eyes fill. It was a shock to go, after all these years, back into some of the fear and uncertainty that had permeated Voldemort's second rise. _I lived like this, _he thought. _How?_ Ginny's sobs died down and she went off to bed, while Harry set protective hexes around the house. Minutes later, he joined her.

Hermione Weasley awoke slowly. Before she was truly awake she could sense that her arms and legs were bound, and she could feel the repulsive warm fuzziness of a gag in her mouth. She tried to move, and found that the ropes allowed some small freedom of movement. She was lying on her side, facing a stone wall. She pushed herself up into a sitting position against the stone, and finally looked around her. She was stunned.

There, in front of her, was a castle. Not a fairy-tale castle with improbable towers and follies, nor yet a huge Medieval keep, but a castle nonetheless. Hermione had never really studied Muggle castles, but this didn't look like what she thought a castle should look like. It was, she could tell, older; more primitive. It was also quite symmetrical. She seemed to be lying in a courtyard, surrounded by walls, and looking straight at the actual castle, or keep. It was square and squat, with sinister-looking arrow slits. It seemed to be deserted. From what Hermione knew of castles, this seemed unlikely. Muggles, she knew, swarmed over them nowadays. Even two rocks on top of each other could be made into a tourist attraction with fancy multimedia presentations and displays.

This one, however, was real. Suddenly, Hermione heard the crunching of feet on the lightly-trodden scree in the courtyard. Two men came from behind the keep, walking towards her, talking between themselves. Hermione strained her ears, but what she heard was in an unfamiliar language. The men were wild-looking, with dark robes and strikingly white hair and beards. Yet they looked hale and hearty, and when they mutely grabbed her by the shoulders and calves and carried her toward the keep, she could tell they were strong; stronger, in fact, than she would have believed.

The keep, as she expected, was dark inside, but the almost rose color of the stone around the arrow slits, which widened sharply on the inside, reflected light well, and she could clearly see. A hard, dark wooden chair, intricately carved, stood in the middle of the large room, and in the chair sat a man.

He was tall and straight, with piercing gray eyes. His hair was as white as the other two men. He was old, and to Hermione he looked ancient; a relic, like the castle itself. His eyes had a stern look, and a small golden circlet encircled his head. He fixed her with his eagle eyes for a full minute before saying, "Edern, Ervan, remove yon bonds. She means no harm." He spoke in a soft voice, elegant and very foreign. It was not deep or high, but smooth and chocolaty. His accent was thick, and his construction archaic, but she understood him easily. The two men, who had stood at either side of the throne after dumping Hermione unceremoniously down on the floor, obeyed mutely. She felt the ropes and gag being removed almost gently. She pushed the hair out of her face and stood up stiffly. The man in the chair again fixed her with the eyes, and feeling she would rather avoid another period of looking into those infinite eyes, hard as stone, she tried to deflect it.

"Who—who are you?" The words came out haltingly, despite Hermione's best efforts to the contrary.

"I?" the man responded, almost amused. "I am Eleder of the _Dumnonii_, Guardian of the _Hudol_ and holder of the _Fakel Hynwys_. Welcome, my Lady, to Tintagel Castle."

"Tintagel Castle? Bosh! Tintagel is a bunch of ruins. I took the kids picnicking there last year--"

"Excuse me, I beg to differ." He glanced around him in a studied gesture. "As you can see, 'tis hardly a 'bunch of ruins,' my Lady."

Hermione was getting fed up. "Look," she said, in a voice of steel, "my husband and children are probably worried sick of me. Let me go."

The lines around Eleder's eyes deepened and hardened. If his face was sandstone before, it was granite now. "I'm sorry, my Lady. I can't do that."

Thank you for sticking with Amaranth so far, and I hope you're enjoying it. It's taken me this long to create a coherent plot, and the writing should become easier from here. All Cornish phrases are genuine, taken from (/#top) Cornish translator, and all Cornish names are taken from "Names for the Cornish," picked up in a visitor's center in Penzance two years ago. I hope you're liking the Celtic touch I bring to Harry Potter, and that you will continue to read this story. Thanks :) --Dathomir.


	6. Search

Amaranth

By M.M. Bratrud, aka Dathomir

Chapter 6—Search

Ron stood on a small knoll off the road, looking disdainfully as Ministry witches and wizards from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, all in the laughable new chartreuse uniforms, swarmed over his cottage, under the protection of a "Repelio Muggletum" charm. They had arrived on the scene, belatedly, the morning after, several different departments examining everything and making an exasperated and panicky Ron tell them what happened many times. No real progress had been made, and Malfoy had yet to show himself. As a Ministry witch approached his postbox, wand raised warily, he turned around in disgust, with a snort so loud that several ravens in a neighboring tree took off, cawing raucously and wheeling through the air in a tumult before falling into a formation and flying away to the west.

He heard raised voices, and turned around again. Harry was arguing with the witch who had been so suspicious of Ron's mailbox. Ron could hear snatches of what they were saying, but not all of it because of a temperamental, cool breeze.

"--But what did you expect to find in a Muggle postbox?--"

"--Following Ministry Procedure...guidelines clearly state--"

"--Looking in mailboxes instead of looking for the kidnappers, I've had enough...ineptitude...run like a mob...no justice--."

Ron climbed down the knoll and stood behind Harry, mutely offering his support. The Ministry witch, who was actually quite large and menacing, started to swell with anger. Her eyes narrowed and her hand strayed towards her wand pocket. Just in time, Malfoy apparated between them. "Now then Potter...what's all this?" He said, catching sight of the witch's hasty movement away from her wand pocket and Harry's red face. "What's going on?"

Harry was about to say something when the witch spoke loudly, as if she'd been holding herself in. "I told him, Minister. I told him we have to follow Ministry guidelines, and he _insulted_ the Ministry!" She finished impressively and swelled a bit more, looking down her nose at Harry.

Malfoy, far from sharing her emotions, looked guilty and embarrassed. "Well, now, Georgina, I think we can make an exception...unusual circumstances, must be accounted for." The witch, Georgina, deflated and feebly said "Yes, Minister" before going away to prod the clematis on its trellis savagely with her wand. The clematis gave a sigh and wilted.

Later, over tea in Malfoy's office, the picture started looking better. Malfoy grudgingly agreed to call upon the Order of the Phoenix to resolve the issue, instead of his Ministry bureaucracy. The Ministry had been perennially jealous of the starring role the Order had in Voldemort's defeat, and even more so its continued survival. Harry himself sometimes wondered why Shacklebolt had kept it going, but now realized with a start that it was for exactly this contingency. Shacklebolt, with more foresight than Harry, must have realized that the death of Voldemort did not mean the future of the wizarding world would be a golden dream, and that trouble would always arise again. Harry did not as yet feel anything like he had during Voldemort's second reign of terror; but perhaps that was because he was older now and, hopefully, wiser.

Leaving Malfoy's office, Harry apparated to the doorstep of Kingsley Shacklebolt's fine house in Yorkshire, near Swaledale. Canowindra, he called it. It was a fine, petite Georgian house, red brick with white-painted shutters and discreet but verdant ivy in all the right places. Harry thought of the grand but ramshackle pile that was his own home with a twinge of envy. He rang the doorbell, which was soon answered. Shacklebolt's wife, Terana, showed him into a tall, paneled library. She was a fine and aristocratic looking woman, with high cheekbones and coffee-colored skin and flashing eyes. She was at least a head taller than Harry. She did not say much, inquiring about Ginny and the children, before Kingsley himself entered. He was dressed resplendently in purple silk.

"Harry," he said, smiling, in his deep voice, "so nice to see you."

"Hello, Kingsley. It's not exactly a social visit I'm afraid."

Kingsley's smile shortened by several molars. "Ah, yes. First, the death of Michael Corner and then the kidnapping of his underling, your sister-in-law, Hermione Granger."

Harry was mildly impressed. The Ministry had convinced Luna not to run the story, something which reminded Harry a little too much of the old, Fudge days. But he should have known Kingsley would have sources other than the _Daily Prophet._ "Yes. We're all very worried, of course. Malfoy's stumped but won't admit it, and so he let me call you in. No motive, no evidence. Michael's corpse looks like he fell asleep after a spa treatment. And they did something to Ron, he can barely remember what they looked like now. Some sort of slow-action, selective memory charm? None of it makes sense." He stopped and ran his fingers through his hair, looking at Kingsley bleakly. The older man's brow was furrowed in thought.

"Hmm. A mystery. I think we should go through everything from the beginning. But first," he said, standing up, "we should alert the others." He motioned Harry to follow him out of the library. They descended a staircase and found themselves in front of a blank wall. Kingsley took out his wand and muttered something under his breath. Harry heard a wrenching sound behind him and turned around, confused. The stairs behind him were receding into the wall around them. Through the newly-formed opening, Harry was amazed to see, he could look right into the front hallway of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, London. Kingsley again motioned him, and Harry followed him through the stone passage, which morphed eerily into the steely gray wallpaper of Number 12. There was the umbrella stand that Tonks had always knocked over. Thinking of it brought a twinge to Harry's heart. Not the first nor even the thousandth since that day—Tonks and Lupin and George. And Colin, and Dobby. Cedric. _Stop it_, he told himself. _It's not going to be like that._

The curtains surrounding Sirius' mother rustled ominously as Kingsley stepped on a creaky floorboard, and opened quietly. "Oh, it's you," she mumbled, in annoyance but grudging tolerance. Kreacher's turn of heart towards Harry and the Order had rubbed off on her slightly. She still complained loudly, but the incandescent, incredibly loud rages of the past were gone. Harry grinned to himself. That was something to be thankful for. Sirius' mother seemed to think he was laughing at her, and withdrew into her curtains with an indignant _whuff. _The place was much like it had always been, with cleaning projects still ongoing. Kreacher had helped enormously during the years after Voldemort had fallen in cleaning up the place, but the house, even with Kreacher and Mrs. Black on the other side, was still waging its lonely war. It was as if centuries of questionable magic and prejudice and bad feeling took more than a generation to wash away. But even now, Harry noticed, the windows seemed to let in more light than they had in Sirius' day.

The house was still officially Harry's, and he and Ginny stayed there occasionally when they were in London. But without the cheerfulness of the Order, and even more so without Sirius, it was still a melancholy place. Just then, Kingsley popped his head up from the stairwell that led down to the kitchen. "Coming Harry?" Harry realized with a start that he could hear voices. So they were not alone in the house after all. The sounds increased until he and Kingsley opened the old teak kitchen door, and found themselves in a blaze of light. The pans were still polished and gleaming from Kreacher's day, but dusty with lack of use. The blaze roaring merrily in the huge fire pit reflected brightly off the bronze, almost like a light fixture.

There was no real fuss as Kingsley and Harry walked in; the other people in the room continued to talk. Familiar faces nodded as Harry walked by. There were Neville and Hannah Longbottom. Neville winked at Harry from under his long, glossy black hair. Age had been kind to Neville. Though he weighed a little more, there were laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, and none of old bumbling insecurity. He remained forgetful, but like the Lavender-era Ron, had experienced a huge jump in self-confidence since he began seeing Hannah Abbott. Not the best example, Harry thought, since Ron and Lavender were some of the worst-suited people to each other Harry had ever seen. And there were his Tinsworth neighbors, Bill and Fleur Weasley. Bill's hair had receded somewhat, but the horrible scarring had steadily decreased, until he now looked only badly pockmarked. And Fleur looked older but just as stunning as she had when she had so stunned Ron asking to borrow the Bouillabaisse.

Talking to them was another familiar face: George Weasley. His face was spread in impish but, Harry suspected, not deeply seated, amusement as he told a funny anecdote. He had let himself go in the years following Fred's death, experimenting with too much fire-whisky and substances far more dangerous which made Harry shudder just to think of them. He had pulled himself together when he started dating Angelina Johnson again, just as she became Chaser for the Tornadoes. But his face was still deeply creased in sadness, which made his present expression of mirth seem insincere, although Harry could hardly think of an adjective less likely to describe George. Angelina was sitting next to him, absently twirling his hair. She was as tall and exotic as always, although she had given up the dreadlocks in favor of a short pixie cut. A beautiful green dragon-skin bag was on her lap. The Tornadoes paid their top Chaser well. There were more: Molly and Arthur Weasley, gray-haired but hale and hearty. Next to Neville, was Minerva McGonagall. Although nowhere near the age Dumbledore had been during Harry's time at Hogwarts, the four Stunners she had sustained from Umbridge and her Inquisitorial Squad had left her frail physically, but still sharp mentally. Professor Sprout, looking completely unchanged, was also listening to George's anecdote. Rolf and Luna Scamander were lost in deep conversation with each other in the corner, musing over a queerly-shaped root. Hagrid was not there, Shacklebolt told him, because his latest magical acquisition had laid him out stone cold. He was in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, under the capable care of Nurse Parvati Patil, Madame Pomfrey having passed on some years before, along with Professor Flitwick. As Harry made his way to the far corner of the room and one of the few empty chairs, Kingsley stood by the door, fidgeting with his watch, anxious to get started. Finally, there were some obscenities in the corridor, a crash, and the exasperated voice of Mrs. Black, and Percy Weasley and his wife Audrey joined them, looking ruffled. "Sorry," said Percy by way of explanation, "knocked over that accursed umbrella stand."

As Percy sat down, Kingsley cleared his throat loudly. "Thank you for assembling on such short notice. You know I would not have called you here if it was not something important, and it is." He paused for a breath. "Some of you may know that Michael Corner has been found dead." About half of the people in the room nodded grimly, while others looked shocked. "But what none of you know except Harry is that Hermione Weasley has been kidnapped." This time no one nodded grimly. Several gasped. Neville opened his mouth but no sound came out. "I see you appreciate the severity of the situation. This is why I have reconvened the Order. I can't stress enough what a bad situation this is. We have no evidence, no suspects. The public will go hysteric. Harry, would you mind telling them everything that happened?"

The shocked faces turned toward Harry. He nodded and stood up, reluctantly. He proceeded to tell them everything he could remember; leaving nothing out. He started at the moment Hermione found the book in his attic. He didn't know why, but it seemed like the natural starting place. And he moved on; Michael's search for the English book, the frantic way in which the book was delivered. The cryptic note that came with the package; Michael's death, and finally, the mysterious kidnapping of Hermione Weasley.

Hermione Weasley was growing restless. She had spent a fitful night sleeping against the wall of the courtyard. Luckily it had been a warm night, but sleeping against rock was not comfortable at all. The morning had dawned gray and windy. A steady, easterly wind, which blew the spray from the pounding surf into the courtyard as if it was raining. The surf was a constant noise; a huge rhythmic liquid battering ram on the unyielding rock of the coast. In the daylight, she could confirm what the strange man Eleder had said: it certainly looked like the place where Restormel Castle had been when she took the kids picnicking, but the Castle itself was much different. It had been returned, somehow, to its former glory. Hermione suddenly realized that it must have been magic. They had confiscated her wand, handling it distastefully, but even without it Hermione could sense a huge amount of enchantment at work. _This is incredible_, she thought. _None of our magicians could do anything like this, not even close._ She hardly had time to consider what that fact said about who she was dealing with when Eleder's two lookalikes, Edern and Ervan, came striding out of the keep into the courtyard, and gestured her to get up. The bounds had been left undone, because the castle was securely locked, and the walls and gate were strong. They had confiscated her wand, handling it distastefully, but even without it Hermione could sense a huge amount of magic at work.

Edern and Ervan escorted her once more out of the courtyard and into the interior of the castle. The castle was round, with the structures of the castle hugging the outside wall, leaving a circular courtyard at the center. Imprecisely, Hermione measured it as about fifty feet across. The scene inside the castle had changed drastically since last night. There were at least ten other men there, and three women. All were tall and white-haired. They looked noble and vibrantly alive. Although their faces were largely expressionless, Hermione sensed that they were all quite cheerful about something. "Ah, Lady Hermione," said Eleder. "Again you grace us with your presence."

These medieval affectations had almost flattered Hermione last night, but she now realized that there was a substantial amount of irony behind the words. Not enough to make her doubt their sincerity, but enough to throw her off balance. "What do you want?" she demanded, almost tremulously.

"That is not for you to know, yet. Suffice to say, we need your help on a great venture. And we will have it, however unwilling you may be." The words were threatening but the tone was light. His voice was deeply sophisticated, but its strange accent continued. "But that is still in the future. In the meantime, my Lady, perhaps you would deign to join us for the morning meal?" Hermione realized that she was famished. This came so suddenly that she said, "Yes," without really thinking.

The morning meal was fruit, rough but wholesome bread, and strips of salted pork with a drink which Hermione supposed to be mead. If it was, it was only mildly alcoholic and tasted delicious. Hermione dug in with gusto, noting the complete lack of silverware and any refined table manners. As she ate, Hermione mused that you could sometimes tell a lot about a person by the way they ate. Sophisticated people ate with proper silverware and took their time, chewing each bite slowly and thoroughly and not sipping noisily as Hermione was now doing. Other people she had seen eat just ate. No real conversation, concentrating on conveying as much food into themselves as possible. Hermione, perhaps because of her company, strongly felt that the second group was more admirable. She thought about this with some amusement as she took a huge bite out of a rather large loaf of bread. The crust was tough and she realized she must look very silly, but no one at the table batted an eyelash.

Soon enough the breakfast was done and the women cleaned up the long table. Hermione stood awkwardly until one of the women gestured at the table irritably and Hermione hastily joined in their cleaning. They brought the rough-hewn plates and drinking bowls out of the room, into a long hall off of which there were various doors. At the end of the hall, she could smell the kitchen. After depositing she deposited her dishes, the women ignored her and bustled around. Hermione awkwardly backed out of the room and down the corridor.

Hermione passed no one in the halls, and soon found herself in the courtyard. In the time since she had been there, the sun had burned through the clouds and now shone down on the castle gloriously, making sharp shadows. It was high in the sky; Hermione guessed it to be past ten. With fresh purpose, she set to exploring the castle, looking for anything and everything she could use to her advantage. She even tried to open the enormous main gate, but couldn't budge it. Increasingly frustrated, she rain around the castle wildly for a few minutes, exhausting herself and finding nothing helpful. The sun beat down, and sweat beaded on her upper lip. She had encountered no one in her wild sojourn, and the castle had seemed much larger than it had earlier. She realized it must have been an enchantment. Anger welled up, hot and strong. Why were they testing her like this? But before she had even voiced the question in her mind, she thought of the answer: it was a test. It must have been. But to what purpose? To test her resourcefulness? In a place with no resources to use, she thought wryly, that was unlikely. Her intelligence? Possibly, but why? Her stamina? She dismissed that quickly. Her resistance to enchantment? Yes, perhaps that was it. If so, she had failed miserably.

Suddenly, she was not alone. Unconsciously, she had been standing right in the middle of the courtyard. Now, she found herself surrounded by a loose circle of the mysterious men and women, all dressed in dark gray. Eleder stood in front of her, tallest of all. His expression was stern but amused. Hermione's anger, momentarily thrust under the surface by her train of thought, cascaded to the surface, and took control. It was so easy to give in to emotion; so easy and just what these kidnappers deserved. "WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME!? LET ME GO!" She screamed, and threw herself at Eleder, kicking and punching every bit of him she could reach. But she was hitting thin air, and fell to the ground from her momentum. She looked up. Eleder was standing on the other side of the circle. Hermione jumped up and made for him determinedly. Again he waited till she was inches away, and then dematerialized and rematerialized instantly in his original position. She kept her balance, barely, but only by flapping her arms wildly. A ripple spread through the ranks of heretofore silent gray-clad people. Laughter. They were laughing at her.

Hermione took a savage swing at the nearest figure. She performed the same trick, appearing a few feet to the left. Hermione tried again, and the woman appeared in her original position. But Hermione was ready for her, lunging for her as soon as she reappeared. She was caught by surprise, and Hermione caught her a glancing blow on the jaw. She made a startled noise, and then whispered something savagely. Hermione was hit by a huge invisible buffer. It threw her back away from the woman violently, and she fell to the ground, winded; and there was a warm, wet stickiness on her face, flowing into her mouth. She put her hand up and drew it away with a cry. Her nose was broken.

She fell to the ground, and the tears flowed to join the blood. She made a pitiful heap on the ground, blood matting her hair. Then she felt gentle hands lift her head up. It was one of the mysterious enchanters, but he was not old. He had a kindly, youngish face with laugh lines around his eyes. He had a beard, however, which was white and full. He smiled at her peacefully. "Come, little one. We will clean you up. Use your sleeve to staunch the blood. That's right." His voice, she noticed, was not accented like the others. It was a normal voice; a familiar voice. But blood loss was already making her feel faint, and she could not place the voice. She fell into a half-conscious state.

Hermione found her clothes being taken off, and protested weakly, but they were replaced with a loose gray robe as soon as the blood had been cleared away, and her hair was carefully washed free of blood. The young acolyte, as she had come to think of him, rarely left her side. Hermione was only vaguely aware of her surroundings; she was in a large but light and airy stone room. The stones were whitewashed and the room was lit by a window which looked into the courtyard, and two narrow arrow slits high up on the wall. Hermione fell farther and farther away from reality; her thoughts dissolving into a distorted prism of different universes, each one a thought. She passed then into sleep; a sleep too deep to be natural. But it was not soon enough, and she was wracked with fever.

Her delirium was insanity. Figures wove in and out of it, speaking to her; giving her advice which made no sense. But it did to her, and she tried to follow it all. Images, too. A cup. A great country, brought out of the water. A sword. Michael Corner's face, laughing. Ron. Ron. Ron. Hugo. Rose. Harry. Ginny. And then Eleder was there. Unlike the rest of her perception, which shifted wildly, his face stayed unmoving, an anchor in the meaninglessness. Solid and unyielding and...kind? The chaos swirled around him as he opened his mouth. His voice seemed at the same time miles away and inches. "Come back. Do not let this extinguish your light. There is work to be done. You are needed. Live! Live for me, live for your family, live for life itself! Claw your way back up the cliff. Do not give up! Do not listen to them," by which Hermione instantly knew he meant the other figures that stalked her fevered dreams, some great and terrible although she was not afraid, others disgusting and pitiful, "come back! Come...back! You...are...needed..." Eleder's face shrunk as his voice faded, until only the echoes of his voice...how did it sound? Golden, she decided, if gold could be cast into a voice...remained. Slowly, the chaos receded, like a tide. The cacophony and the terrible figures were replaced by almost oppressive quiet, and finally Hermione drowned in the peace of true sleep.


End file.
